The Tiger of Mysore: A Story of the War with Tippoo SaibHenty, G. A. (George Alfred)
History
The Tiger of Mysore: A Story of the War with Tippoo Saib
Henty, G. A. (George Alfred)
India -- History -- Mysore War, 1799 -- Fiction; Tipu Sultan, Fath 'Ali, Nawab of Mysore, 1753-1799 -- Juvenile fiction
It was, indeed, but two days later that Dick congratulated himself
upon the change, for Surajah was sent by Tippoo with an order for the
execution of four English prisoners. Dick knew nothing of the matter
until Surajah, on his return, told him that he had been obliged to
stop and see the orders carried out, by poison being forced down the
unfortunate officers' throats.
"It was horrible," he said, with tears in his eyes.
"Horrible!" Dick repeated. "Thank God I have been put to other work,
for I feel that I could not have done it. And yet, to have refused to
carry out the tyrant's orders would have meant death to us both, while
it would not have saved the lives of these poor fellows. Anyhow, I
would not have done it. As soon as I had received the order I would
have come to you, and we would have mounted and ridden off together,
and taken our chance."
"Let us talk of something else," Surajah said. "Are the beasts all in
good health?"
"As well as they can be, when they are fed so badly, and so miserably
cooped up. I made a great row this morning, and have kept the men at
work all day in cleaning out the places. They were all in a horrible
state, and before I could get the work done, I had to threaten to
report the whole of them to Tippoo, and they knew what would come of
that. I told Fazli, last night, that the beasts must have more flesh,
and got an order from him that all the bones from the kitchens should
be given to them."
That evening when Dick, on his way to the apartments of one of the
officers, was going along a corridor that skirted the portion of the
Palace occupied by the zenana; a figure came out suddenly from behind
the drapery of a door, dropped on her knees beside him, and, seizing
his hand, pressed it to her forehead. It was, to all appearance, an
Indian girl in the dress of one of the attendants of the zenana.
"What is it, child?" he said. "You must have mistaken me for someone
else."
"No, Bahador," she said, "it is yourself I wanted to thank. One of the
other attendants saw you go along this corridor, some time ago, and
ever since I have watched here of an evening, whenever I could get
away unobserved, in hopes of seeing you. It was I, my lord, whom the
tiger was standing over when you came to our rescue. I was not greatly
hurt, for I was pushed down when the tiger burst in, and, save that it
seized me with one of its paws, and tore my shoulder, I was unhurt.
Ever since I have been hoping that the time would come when I could
thank you for saving my life."
"I am glad to have done so, child. But you had best retire into the
zenana. It would not be good for you, or me, were I found talking to
you."
The girl rose to her feet submissively, and he now saw her face,
which, in the dim light that burnt in the corridor, he had not
hitherto noticed.
"Why," he exclaimed, with a start, "you are English!"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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